


Photo ID Required

by preblematic



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dream Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, sloppy blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preblematic/pseuds/preblematic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boy can dream, can't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photo ID Required

**Author's Note:**

> I'm makin up tours and timelines all over the place, like a true bandom writer

It starts when Pete has a dream about blowing Patrick. This is neither the first nor the last time that Pete dreams about blowing Patrick. Pete dreams about blowing a lot of people. Pete has dreamt, on occasion, of blowing _Pete_. That's not what's important. What's important is the setting.

It starts like some other, normal, not sex dreams that Pete's had, a generic venue and a generic crowd they're playing to. Pete dreams about being on stage a lot; this scene is nothing new, either. Pete knows, because he plays it over and over in his head later.

He watches from a mixture of first and third person, as dreams tend to be in, as he works the stage, works the audience, and finally works Patrick. Little Patrick, with his hat pulled down to here and his eyes permanently moving to avoid eye contact, shoulders hunched like there's a stiff wind, he's irresistibly adorable. 

Pete prances his way over to his singer and goes for the usual, a lick to the neck, a bite to the ear, rub up on him like he's the tree to Pete's itchy back, but that just doesn't seem like a enough this time. 

Pete's barely playing at this point, but the audience doesn't care. He slides a hand down Patrick's chest, under his guitar, and grabs at a dick that he's oh so familiar with. Patrick goes sharp.

Because this is a dream, Pete is on his knees with neither preamble nor his bass, and actually without any work at all; he just does that dream time-hop that everyone is familiar with. Patrick's cock is out and hard, wet and thick, and somehow there's still music going on around them; Patrick's guitar is against Pete's shoulders and the back of his head. Patrick smells like sweat and anxiety and performance high, and Pete wants to lap it up from his skin. So he does.

It doesn't taste like anything special. It mostly just tastes like Patrick's cock in his mouth. It _feels_ like Patrick's cock in his mouth, too. It's stretching his jaw out to almost painful levels, but in a good way, rubbing against the back of his throat and bruising his lips until his whole world is there, and everyone can see it. Everyone can see Pete being the whore he is, on his knees, letting Patrick fuck his mouth.

His hands come up to grip the back of Patrick's thighs. Pete urges him further, more, coaxes him to _fuck his mouth_ already. Pete always has to prod Patrick to do what he wants, what he _needs._ Patrick's inexperienced, an eighteen year old, a child, really, regardless of what laws say, and he's still at the, "I can't believe I'm having sex," stage. He's still timid and careful, a gentle lover. That's not what Pete needs.

So he coaxes and prods, and eventually he gets what he needs. Patrick abandons the pretense of playing the guitar and just grabs Pete's hair, thrusts his hips forward roughly, makes Pete gag and work for it. Fuck, it's heaven.

Patrick pulls out just enough to come mostly in Pete's mouth, but also on his face, around his lips. He swallows lightly, puts Patrick away, and falls back against the stage. He's staring at the stage lights, panting; the crowd is going apeshit. They're screaming at him; they're screaming _for_ him. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat.

"Fuck," he breathes, thrusts his hips up into nothing. He feels used in the best way. He turns to look at the crowd. They're clamoring, clambering, fighting to get a better look, a better look at him, at his fucked out mouth. He ought to give them a show.

He climbs to his knees, opens his mouth wide so the whole crowd can see. He palms at his cock through his pants, rubs nice and slow. Someone pets his hair soothingly. Pete looks up, and Patrick is mouthing the words "good boy" at him, praising him. Pete rolls his head back, closes his eyes, and basks in it, in the touch.

There are hands all over him now, petting his hair and running nails down his back. Multiple hands are pawing at his cock, too hard and too soft and _perfect_. He opens his eyes to find he's in the crowd now, looking up at the stage, at the lights. Patrick smiles down at him, and Pete closes his eyes again, lets the pleasure wash over him.

Pete wakes up sweaty and hard in his boxers. He remembers the dream. _Fuck,_ he remembers the dream. He's panting as he checks the time on his phone, 3:02 AM. They have an early day tomorrow, several interviews and more driving and a show. Patrick would kill him.

Patrick's gonna kill him. He plants his feet on the bus floor and carefully, quietly, gets out of his bunk. He pulls back the curtain enough to see Patrick's sleeping form, facing away from the aisle, curled up like nothing can hurt him if he pretends to be a cat. Pete climbs into Patrick's bunk with practiced ease, bracketing the slightly shorter man with all his limbs. He nuzzles into Patrick's neck, licks at the skin he finds, and slowly rolls his hips down against Patrick's thigh.

Patrick snuffles and shies away from the touch, trying to cling to sleep. "'Trick," Pete croaks, voice still asleep it seems. "Wake up, doll." He peppers kisses along the part of Patrick's face he can get to, runs one hand up under the ratty T-shirt the blond's been sleeping in for months.

One sharp intake of breathe later and Patrick's awake. "--time is it?" he mutters, stretching his legs out. He pries one eye open to look Pete over blurrily.

"Three," Pete says, leaning down to mouth at Patrick's shoulder through thin fabric. "Or something like that. Dunno. Fuck." Patrick shifts around to lie on his back, and in doing so brushes up against Pete's cock. "Fuck, Patrick, I gotta--"

"You don't 'gotta' do shit," Patrick grumbles. He pushes at the hand under his shirt and wipes sleep out of his eyes. "You can go jerk off in your own bunk, fucker."

"No," Pete whines," don't wanna. Wanna, mm, I wanna suck you off."

"Pete, for god's sake--"

"Just let me," Pete breathes into the curve of Patrick's neck. "Please, just, fuck, just let me." He's rutting mindlessly against Patrick's leg, leaving trails of spit and little red marks all along Patrick's neck. His tongue is too big and too dry, and it needs to be put back in its place. He needs something in his mouth he _needs--_

"Fine," Patrick hisses. He throws an arm over his eyes and lifts his hips slightly in a show of ascent. "Fine," he says again.

Pete kisses his neck in thanks. He trails kisses down the younger's neck, down his arm, sucks two of Patrick's fingers into his mouth because he's just so excited. Patrick is aware of Pete's quirks, and obligingly starts rubbing his fingers over Pete's tongue.

"You're so needy," Patrick mumbles. He removes the arm covering his eyes and reaches down to pet Pete's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Pete makes a pleased noise and lets his fingers go, mouths along his belly till he gets to the edge of Patrick's boxers.

Sucking dick comes real easy to Pete, like riding a bicycle, or breathing. Patrick usually moans all pretty for him, but they're not alone tonight, so the singer bites on his thumb, and Pete has to be satisfied with the quiet pants that escape.

Pete comes with a hand down his boxers shortly after Patrick comes in his mouth. Patrick whines like a hurt puppy when Pete keeps mouthing at his cockhead well after he's spent. "Pete, Pete, st-stop. Hurts. Pete," Patrick whimpers. Pete keeps sucking even as Patrick twines hands in his hair and tries to pull him off. He  gets a kick to the small of his back for his trouble, but it was worth it.  Patrick's noises are the prettiest damn thing.

Pete finally pulls off and smiles up at Patrick. He crawls up and plants a kiss on the younger's lips. He wraps around Patrick like a monkey on a palm tree. "'Night," he says with a satisfied grin.

"I hate you," Patrick says back.

**Author's Note:**

> was originally planning some plot to go with this porn, but y'know. I'm tired. Maybe later.


End file.
